• Geoff Page
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The Little Thredbo River


The Little Thredbo River

is all I need of nature


its conversation over rocks

the silence of its pools


its manageable scale perhaps

14 Ks in all


its clarity unspoiled

water as it wants to be


vegetation incidental

alpine grasses alpine moss


gums I’ve yet to learn the names of.

The Little Thredbo river is


not unlike a poem when it’s

finally ‘abandoned’


a subtle movement over stones

that stillness at the finish.





Disputing with Lee

A good solo doesn’t care who plays it.

                    —Lee Konitz (1927–2020)


Like the universe in turn

the solo doesn’t care.

It lingers briefly in a shape


that’s born for evanescence

even when there is a tape.

The solo doesn’t care


but knows in every detail

the person who has made it,

her exaltation and despairs,


his dogged hours in one small room,

the sound that is a signature

or billboard with a name.


It understands the shape of hunger,

the waywardness of rent.

It keeps the teachings of instructors,


the maxims that persist

from back before the instrument

became a voice in flight.


The solo knows its own uniqueness

and how, despite the press of chords,

it cannot be the same.


It knows its true epiphanies,

those very few across a life

defining their creator yet.


So, yes, the solo doesn’t care,

no more than does a reach of stars,

but nor does it forget.